


Cause for Concern

by hellabaloo



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Babysitting, Kid Fic, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-25 12:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10764225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/pseuds/hellabaloo
Summary: Marc opens the door with a wide smile, Althea Rakitic on his hip, and what looks like a smear of purple marker on his cheek. Rafa’s heart stutters while the connection between his brain and his mouth completely short-circuits, and he’s just standing there. Gaping, like a fish.Rafa came out to have a good time and, honestly, he’s feeling so attacked right now.





	Cause for Concern

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bibliophile357](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliophile357/gifts).



> Happy Spring Fling, bibliophile357! (I think that's what we're going with XD)
> 
> I've wanted to write a terfinha fic in the vein of accidental baby acquisition for literal _years_ at this point, and I'm glad I've finally been given the proper push to see it done. I hope you like it!
> 
> A quick note: I've totally handwaved Adara Rakitic out of this fic because I already feel vaguely guilty for bringing Althea into this and honestly, it makes things a little simpler.
> 
> More notes to be added after author reveals :)

.

 

Rafinha can’t stop smiling.

It’s a beautiful, early spring day in Barcelona, the sort of day that makes Rafa idly think about buying a convertible, the remontada against Paris is still sending every radio show host into paroxysms of joy, and his nose is starting to feel mostly normal again.

It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with Marc inviting him over on their off day for an afternoon of FIFA and trainer-approved grilled vegetables for dinner that Rafinha has daydreamed about turning into an intense make-out session on Marc’s ridiculously large couch. Not at all.

He tries to manipulate his expression into something a little more serene as he turns onto Marc’s street and finds he can’t. Neymar may be right, the bastard—he needs to do something about this situation, and soon. How his teammate hasn’t noticed his crush might be a minor miracle. Although it may also be because he can’t quite parse Dani’s texts comparing Rafa to whatever Disney princess he’s taken with this week and Marc to the corresponding prince. Understanding what Dani Alves is actually saying is a skill Rafinha sometimes wishes he doesn’t have. 

Pulling into the driveway of Marc’s house, Rafinha pauses a moment after killing the engine. He fidgets with his phone—there’s a snap from Samuel with his new dog and a text from Thiago—but it’s not really enough to keep him justifiably occupied for much longer. He scolds the butterflies in his stomach to calm down and climbs out of his car. This is totally cool. He’s going to have a good time hanging out with his friend. That he desperately wants to push against the nearest surface and ravish like a romance novel heroine. 

But first things first.

Rafinha stops trying to contain his smile and rings the doorbell, sliding off his sunglasses. He can hear Marc shuffling behind the door, and it sounds like he’s talking to someone. Rafa’s smile slips a bit, but then Marc opens the door and Rafinha’s heart stutters.

He’s got a wide smile, Althea Rakitic—all smiles and bright blonde pigtails—balanced on his hip, and what looks like a smear of purple marker on his cheek. The connection between Rafinha’s brain and his mouth has apparently completely short-circuited, and he’s just standing there on Marc’s porch. Gaping, like a fish. They don’t actually look related, but the two heads of blond hair and matching, beaming smiles are apparently enough for Rafa to imagine what Marc’s kids would look like. 

And boy, have his daydreams just escalated quickly, Rafinha thinks to himself. But he smiles and tries to pretend like he’s not currently having a mental crisis at the thought of Marc, with a _kid_.

“Hola, princesa,” he says, leaning in to tickle Althea’s side. She giggles and squirms and hides her face in Marc’s shoulder, and Rafinha can practically feel his heart becoming a clichéd pile of mush and resists the urge to coo at the picture they make. 

“You know Rafinha, Althea. Can you say hi back?” Marc cajoles, his voice softer and more clearly full of affection than Rafinha’s ever heard; except maybe when he talks about his family and Mönchengladbach. 

There’s a small, mumbled, “Hola,” but Althea keeps her face firmly tucked into Marc’s shirt.

Marc smiles, apologetically. “Hey, Rafa, sorry I didn’t call. Ivan organized a surprise trip for Raquel this weekend, but their regular nanny couldn’t work and the flight Raquel’s parents are on doesn’t get in from Seville until—”

“No, it’s totally cool,” Rafinha rushes to reassure Marc. “It’s just FIFA, we can hang out some other time.”

He desperately tries to keep the disappointment and longing out of his voice; Rafa’s not sure he succeeds. 

“Or you could stay,” Marc says, his voice, haltingly, turning it into question. He turns to Althea and asks, “Can Rafinha come play with us, Althea?” The question makes her forget her earlier shyness and bounce excitedly in Marc’s arms. 

“We go swim!”

“Once we’ve put away our coloring books and pens away, we’re going swimming,” Marc amends in a exaggeratedly serious voice. 

“Down,” Althea demands, and Marc rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told and puts her down. Althea runs back into the house, clearly wanting to get a head start on getting through the boring chores portion of the afternoon so she can get back to having fun.

“So, you’ll stay?” Marc asks and Rafinha actually can’t bear to look at Marc while he puts on that imploring face of his: half doubt and half hope that Rafinha’s sure he used to use to ask for just ten minutes more at the football pitch. He sidesteps the questions entirely by brushing past Marc into the hallway and grins at him.

“Shouldn’t you remind her to say please?”

“Shut up,” Marc says closing the door, but it’s with a fond smile that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners. At least Rafinha feels like he’s back on solid ground. Teasing Marc he can do.

“Seriously, man. I’m telling Ivan that you’re teaching his kid bad habits.”

Marc just laughs and puts him in a half-hearted headlock that Rafa dips out of easily, playfully shoving Marc down the hallway. They help Althea gather up all her coloring books, pages that have been ripped out of them—both Marc and Rafa get gifted half-colored pages with the sort of reverence only kids can manage—and more colored pens, pencils, and crayons than Rafinha thinks he’s seen in his entire life. Althea’s a whirlwind of constant motion, running from what must be the bags, plural, Ivan and Raquel packed for her to the kitchen table where she’s clearly been ensconced since lunchtime, if the plate with a half-finished sandwich on it is any indication, and back. She has no patience when Rafinha and Marc aren’t moving fast enough for her, and resorts to pulling them bodily along.

Rafa collapses into a laughing fit when Marc falls dramatically down, claiming exhaustion, and refuses to be budged from the floor. Althea tries valiantly to get him moving again, but she mostly just keeps poking Marc’s arm—caught between giggling at Marc being silly and frustrated that he’s slowing her down. Gesturing for her to keep quiet and knowing where Marc is weakest, Rafa strikes suddenly and gets at least one solid pinch in on Marc’s side before Marc rolls and almost pulls Rafinha down with him. They grapple for a bit before Rafinha hoists Marc to his feet, complaining about Marc’s weight which earns him a playful shove that he just laughs off.

When they’re all finally dressed for the pool—Rafinha having borrowed a pair of Marc’s swim trunks, made a quiet aside comment about it being roomy in the ass that earned him a swat aimed at his head that Rafinha danced away from—Althea turns nervous when actually faced with the prospect of swimming. Marc crouches down to her level and speaks quietly and calmly, leading her to the shallow end by the hand. He gets in first and lets her stand by the edge of the pool in her matching bright pink bathing suit and water wings, and watch Marc for a minute. 

Althea glances at Rafinha, who takes the opportunity to wink at her and cannonball obnoxiously into the deep end. Breaking the surface of the water, he clears the water from his eyes with a shake of his head and finds Marc grinning at him. He swims languidly over to where Althea’s made it onto the first step, the pool water lapping at her knees. 

“You want to swim over to me, Althea?” Rafinha asks. 

Althea looks at Marc, who smiles encouragingly at her. Without warning, she plunges into the water and starts swimming towards Rafinha, splashing more than making steady forward progress. But Rafa smiles and joins Marc’s cheers when she reaches out and wraps her small arms around his neck, his hands automatically cradling her closer to his chest.

“Not so bad, is it?” he asks, smiling. Althea shakes her head, no, and grins toothily back. 

“Can you swim to Marc, now?” he asks her, but his eyes are trained on Marc who smiles and moves a little further away than he had been. Althea’s has completely forgotten her earlier reticence and dives back into the water, her legs whacking Rafinha in the chest as she propels herself forward. 

By some unspoken understanding, they carry on like that, increasing the distance between them bit by bit until Althea seems to grow bored of plain swimming and proposes playing a game. They try to follow her rules—they’re all sharks, who have to eat, and eat by tagging another person, or at least that’s the most Rafa can understand—but mostly end up swimming in circles and splashing at each other. 

Eventually, Althea’s sitting on the step, lazily kicking her feet through the water while Marc and Rafa are playing an improvised pool-version of head-only keepy-uppy. Marc counts to fifteen in Spanish before reverting to German and counts for Rafa’s not sure how many more. He’s too entranced by the tanlines on Marc’s biceps. 

There’s suddenly a splash and Rafa snaps out of his study of Marc’s arms to find the object of said study laughing at him. 

“You all right, Rafa? Too much sun?” 

Marc’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles and Rafinha loves that about him, and maybe he has gotten too much sun.

“You know you have, uh,” Rafa starts, trying to recover, and then, for the second that afternoon, the connection between his brain and his mouth goes completely haywire. Marc, his wet hair sticking up in all directions rather than the carefully parted and slicked back look he usually prefers, cocks his head to the side and smiles, patiently waiting for Rafa to finish his thought.

“Uh. Marker. Right there.”

Rafa sort of waves his hand in Marc’s face, and Marc laughs. He licks his thumb and begins rubbing at the wrong cheek. Rafa moves forward, the resistance from the water making it seem like an awkwardly long time.

“No.”

Marc stills as Rafa reaches out a hand. 

“Here,” he almost whispers, dabbing at Marc’s cheek. He can’t bring himself to look away from his task, but focusing on the smooth expanse of Marc’s skin under his fingers is making him imagine highly inappropriate things, given there’s a three year old not ten feet away from them. Rafinha manages to rub away most of the gash of purple across Marc's cheek, and then can't help but continue to stroke his cheek softly while he still has the excuse to.

Marc’s hand snakes around Rafa’s back and rests against his side. He just leaves it there—not pulling him closer or pushing him away. The water’s warm and so is Marc’s hand, but a shiver skitters down Rafinha’s spine. He thinks he might have forgotten how to breathe. Rocking forward before he even realizes he’s moved, Rafinha’s eyes snap up to Marc’s that have widened in clear surprise. 

“Marc! Come play shark!” Althea yells with a laugh, splashing towards them and Marc turns away. Suddenly, all Rafinha can hear is blood rushing in his ears. 

_Oh._ He's definitely fucked this up. 

“I gotta. Go,” Rafa says. “Bathroom.” But Marc’s got his arms full of a squirming Althea, chattering away as fast as she can and Rafa’s not sure he heard him. He swims over to the edge of the pool and pulls himself out, not even bothering to grab a towel. He doesn’t look back and pretends he isn’t running to grab his phone.

Now that he’s said it, it seems like a good idea as any and beelines for the bathroom, while thumbing open his phone and facetimes Neymar. He slams the door shut and leans against it while the call connects.

“Sup, Rafa,” Ney answers and Rafa tries to school his face into something other than the pathetic grimace he’s pretty sure he’s currently wearing.

“Ney—”

“Hey, weren’t you chilling with Marc today?” Neymar asks, forgetting, momentarily, about the piece of fruit he was about to pop into his mouth. 

“Yes—”

“Wait, are you facetiming me from his bathroom?”

Rafa looks down, guiltily. Why the fuck does Neymar have to be perceptive when Rafinha’s experiencing his most embarrassing romantic fail since the first time he tried to kiss Gio. He can feel his face flushing and hopes the shitty lighting might spare him some ribbing. “Yes.”

Neymar pops the fruit into his mouth and, chewing, mouth open, asks, “Oh my god, what did you do? Did you tell him you loved him?” 

“What? No, listen—”

“That you want to ride his dick until you can’t walk straight?”

Rafinha chokes on his denial as the image his brain helpfully supplies hazily grows in his imagination. He’s seen exactly how flexible Marc is at training, and clearly his brain can think of multiple ways to use that information. He coughs, trying to clear his throat, and shakes his head.

Neymar just shrugs. “Well, it’s true.”

“That’s not the point,” Rafinha whines, his voice still not fully operational. 

Neymar rolls his eyes. “Then why are you freaking out in his bathroom and not out there putting your best moves on—”

“Because he’s babysitting Althea and Ivan would kill me if I scarred his daughter like that.”

Neymar pauses, and then nods. “Yeah, I heard about Marc watching Milan, I guess Ivan did too and—”

“You knew?”

Rafa chooses to ignore how his voice pitches up several octaves on the question. He feels betrayed that Neymar let him walk into this situation blind. He also recognizes he’s being dramatic, but it makes him feel moderately better having someone else to blame.

Neymar has the audacity to shrug. Totally unconcerned like they were discussing the weather, not the implosion of Rafinha’s crush on Marc in said teammate’s bathroom. “You know Geri. Apparently, Marc is all Milan can talk about some days and Geri loves to share all these stories about Milan correcting Marc’s Spanish—”

Rafa makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a groan. 

Neymar, tinny sounding through the speakers on Rafa’s phone starts laughing and hooting. 

“Oh my god. You’re thinking about what your kids would look like, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

Rafa is not pouting and Neymar is wrong and an awful friend. The treacherous part of his mind supplies an image of a kid Althea’s age with Marc’s eyes and smile and dark curly hair. He throws his head back against the door and groans. How the fuck has his life come to this?

“ _Shit_. Dude. You got it bad,” Neymar says not sounding remotely sympathetic.

Rafa doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing really to say because that would mean admitting something he’s not ready face. He’s pushed this thing away since Marc first came to Barcelona and he’s not about to give in now.

“Ok, look, Rafa, you need to like. Breathe,” Neymar says, his face filling the entire screen. “Get back out there. Play dolls or color or whatever, you got this. Kids love you. Prove you’re, like, awesome, stable boyfriend material. Then, when Althea’s gone home, jump Ter’s bones. Boom.”

Rafa instantly plays back the look on Marc's face in the pool. Was that good surprise, I can't believe Rafinha is gonna kiss me this is awesome, or bad surprise, why is my friend trying to kiss me?

“I don’t think he’s into guys like that. Or maybe just me,” he says with a wan, self-deprecating smile and shrugs.

“Fuck that, man. He’s totally into you.” Rafinha wishes he felt as confident as apparently Neymar does.

“Thanks, Ney,” he says. He's probably been in the bathroom a suspiciously long time. "Hey, I gotta go."

“Remember, just lay it out simply. You wanna have lots of sex and eventually adopt, like, four kids—”

Rafinha hangs up while Neymar’s in mid-sentence and doesn’t feel any shred of remorse. He takes a steadying breath before leaving the bathroom. Sometime in the midst of his minor freakout, the light has suddenly shifted from the brightness of day to the golden haze of late afternoon. How long was _in_ there, anywhere? His borrowed swim trunks are still mostly damp, even if they have stopped dripping, and Rafa shivers with a sudden chill. He pads over to where he stacked his clothes and pulls on his t-shirt from earlier before making his way back to the pool, having no other excuse for delay. 

He pauses on his way in the living room, where Althea’s wrapped up in blanket, napping and looking especially small on the expanse of Marc’s couch. Marc’s sitting on the floor, facing the tv, playing FIFA on mute. Rafa tries for casual, like he hasn’t just spent the last ten minutes on the phone with Neymar, certainly _not_ having a mild crisis about wanting to kiss his teammate. 

“Everything fine?” Marc asks, glancing sidelong at Rafinha.

“Yeah. Good. I’m good.” Rafinha smiles instead of cringing like he’d like to. He’s not sure Marc buys it, but hands him a controller anyway.

“Want to play?”

“Only if you’re ready to get your ass kicked,” Rafinha teases. It gets a smile out of Marc and something in Rafinha’s chest that had seized up, loosens.

They go through the motions of picking teams and setting up a game in silence. Highly conscious of Althea asleep behind them, even their goal celebrations are muted. Rafinha is happy with this. He’s not sure he needs anything more from Marc; even just sitting in companionable silence is enough for Rafinha. He can deal with his feelings later. There’s a pause in play and Rafinha can feel the words “I should go,” bubble up in his chest and rest of the tip of his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to say them and break the spell of the afternoon.

“Hey,” Marc says quietly and Rafa’s eyes snap to Marc’s instantly. It’s like he’s got Rafa’s attention on a string and Rafa is powerless to resist the draw of Marc’s voice. Powerless or doesn’t want to? Semantics, really.

Marc’s put his controller down, his fingers fiddling with the nap of the tasteful, but mostly boring carpet they’re sitting on. Rafinha watches Marc’s hands, knowing the shape of the callouses on the fingers and the smoothness of his palms, enthralled and wanting to reach out entwine their hands together. He restrains himself. After what happened in the pool, he’s just glad Marc’s still talking to him. 

Marc opens his mouth to say something, and the doorbell rings, echoing in the stillness of the afternoon.

“That’ll be Raquel’s parents,” Marc says. He hesitates a moment longer, watching Rafinha. Or maybe waiting for something. Rafa climbs up and rubs his suddenly sweaty palms on his swim trunks.

“Yeah, you should,” he says gesturing towards the door. “I’ll wake Althea.”

Marc doesn’t move for a beat, and with him still seated and Rafinha standing it's a strange reversal neither of them are used to; not often is Marc looking up at Rafinha. Rafa doesn’t let his thoughts wander too far in that direction and turns away to deal with Althea.

Once she works out her grandparents are here, she’s up like a shot and running around babbling excitedly. Rafinha’s never met Raquel’s parents before, but they’re lovely people with thick Sevillian accents who seem to be familiar with Marc and confident that their granddaughter has been in good hands. Rafinha doesn't let himself dwell on that nugget information, instead his files it away to examine sometime later. Preferably when Marc's not two feet from him clearly demonstrating how capable he is of taking care of kids. There’s several trips back and forth to their car to pack up all of Althea’s things, and joking at Ivan and Raquel’s expense that they left Althea with seemingly half their house. Before she climbs into her car seat, Althea launches herself at Rafa’s legs and hugs him tightly. 

“Bye!” she says, smiling sunnily up at him. 

“Adios, princesa,” he says, laughing and hugging back.

Marc and Rafinha wave at them from the front porch, watching them drive off until they turn the corner out of sight. It’s such a domestic scene, Rafinha would want to gag if he weren’t feeling an actual, satisfied warmth in his chest. God, he’s such a sap. 

Silence stretches out between them, the indistinct hum of the city below them providing a background of white noise. It’s untenable, this teetering between moving forward and pretending nothing’s changed at all between them. 

“Well. That wasn’t the afternoon I was expecting,” Rafinha deadpans. 

Marc laughs. “Me either.”

He looks at Rafinha and Rafinha is about to make his excuses and leave, but the words get caught in his throat when Marc reaches out and takes his hand. What is it about Marc’s hands that make Rafinha forget how to breathe?

“Can I take you to dinner?” Marc asks in a rush. 

“Yes,” Rafinha answers without processing the question. When he does, his face scrunches up in confusion. “Wait. What?”

There’s color in Marc’s cheeks that could be the beginnings of a sunburn, but now Rafa let’s himself think it might be a blush. Marc takes a steadying breath; at least one of them can breathe, Rafa thinks half-hysterically. 

“I’d like to take you out to dinner,” Marc says again, measuring out his words carefully like Rafinha knows he does when he’s worried about saying exactly what he means. “Like on a date.”

“A date?” Rafinha echoes, disbelievingly. He better not be suffering from sunstroke and imagining this. 

“Yes,” Marc says squeezing Rafinha’s hand. The pressure helps anchor him.

“So, you mean I didn’t fuck this up when I almost kissed you?” Rafinha blurts out. 

Neymar’s right—he's got no moves. 

“Not at all,” Marc says leaning in. He pauses for a moment, maybe to give Rafinha the time to compose himself or just to make sure he’s not going to run away again, before pressing a sweet, deliberate kiss to Rafinha’s cheek. Something so chaste shouldn’t make Rafinha shudder with pleasure. There’s definitely a promise of more in it and Rafinha can’t wait to find out what exactly Marc has in mind.

“Yes, I’d love to go to dinner,” Rafinha says and Marc’s smile gets impossibly wider. 

Rafinha can’t keep the grin off his face. And I why shouldn’t he? It’s a beautiful day in Barcelona, life is good and he’s got a hot date with Marc to look forward to.

 

.


End file.
